Chapter 3
Jane
The drive to Tex’s cabin is twenty minutes of darkness, pine trees, and silence that propels my mind into overdrive. Not a scared kind of overdrive, more like my brain finally has the space to process what my body just did.
I signed a contract with a stranger to live in his cabin for a week.
A very tall stranger with broad shoulders and lean muscle, like he’s built for work instead of show. Texas drawl like honey over whiskey. His dark hair is tucked under his cowboy hat, and his green eyes don’t miss anything but somehow feel steady instead of sharp.
What the hell, Jane?
I don’t sign contracts with strangers. I don’t uproot my life on a whim. I don’t let men with quiet voices and steady hands look at me like I make sense.
And yet here I am. In his truck. On my way to his cabin.
The truck’s heater hums softly, and the wipers whisper across the windshield, brushing aside the lazy snowflakes drifting down. Tex drives one-handed, steady and alert. No wasted movement, no radio, no tapping fingers, no restless leg.
It’s infuriating. Meanwhile, my leg bounces, my fingers pick at the seam of my skirt, and my mind cycles through every possible way this could go wrong, while he remains still. Calm like a lake. As if that’s something people can just be. Must be nice.
“So,” I say, unable to bear the silence any longer, “is this the part where you take me to a remote cabin in the woods and reveal your collection of human teeth?”
He grins. “If I had a collection of human teeth, I wouldn’t keep it where guests could find it.”
“That’s... not reassuring.”
“I’ve got a collection of something, though.”
My head snaps toward him. “What?”
“Horseshoes.” His mouth twitches. “Hundreds of ‘em. Organized by year and horse.”
I stare at him. “That’s either endearing or serial-killer adjacent.”
He shrugs. “Bit of both.”
That surprises a genuine laugh from me, and something in my chest loosens.
My hat is in my lap now; I took it off when I got into the truck because wearing a hat indoors feels strange, even if ‘indoors’ is a vehicle. My fingers continue to play with the seam of my skirt.
Tex glances at my hands, then at my bouncing leg, and back to my hands. “You fidget a lot.”
It’s not a question. Not a criticism either; just an observation. “I'm aware.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “Sorry. I know it’s annoying.”
“Didn’t say it was annoyin’.”
I blink. “Most people find it annoying.”
“I’m not most people.”
He falls silent for a moment. Then he says, “You’re quiet.”
“I’ve been talking for ten minutes straight.”
“Not your words,” he replies. “Your energy. It just got quieter.”
I don’t know how to respond to that—to someone who can read me so easily.
My throat tightens for no reason at all.
I shrug. “Maybe I’m just cold.”
He reaches over and turns up the heater.
He doesn’t ask if that’s what I want or make a big deal of it.
He just does it. My brothers do things like that all the time, adjusting things without asking.
It usually makes me feel managed. This feels different.
Maybe because he’s not watching for my reaction or waiting for gratitude. He simply saw a problem and fixed it.
I press my palms against my thighs, soaking up the warmth from the vents.
The truck turns off the main road onto a narrower path, where snow piles higher at the edges. The headlights illuminate dark pines, fence posts, and a stretch of open field shimmering with frost.
Then the cabin comes into view, and I sit up straighter, craning my neck.
It’s not the tiny log shack I had imagined; it’s a proper cabin, with two stories, a wide porch, and warm light glowing in the windows.
Smoke curls from the chimney, and a covered woodpile is neatly stacked to one side.
A wheelbarrow leans against the railing as if waiting for morning.
Everything about it looks well-maintained, as if the man who lives here genuinely cares.
Tex pulls under a covered carport—a smart move for winter—and shuts off the engine.
He gets out, circles the truck, and opens my door, offering his hand to help me out.
I hesitate, not because I don’t want his help, but because I’m stubborn and used to doing everything myself.
“I can get out of a truck,” I mutter.
“I know,” he replies, but his hand remains extended.
I take it.
The snow crunches beneath my boots, and the air is so clean it almost stings. My breath fogs in front of me as I take in my surroundings.
No streetlights. No neighbors. No traffic.
Just trees, sky, and Tex’s cabin nestled in the wilderness as if it belongs to the mountain.
The silence is profound. It’s not empty, but filled with wind, trees, and distant animal sounds. No human noise, no brothers, no expectations.
I take a breath, and my shoulders drop for the first time in hours.
“Still time to run,” I say, mostly joking but with a hint of seriousness.
He casually slings my heavy duffel over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. “You’d leave tracks.”
“Maybe I’d double back.”
His gaze locks onto mine, steady as a fence post. “I’d still find you.”
A strange flutter forms in my stomach, which I mask with attitude. “Don’t threaten me with your Army stuff.”
“Navy.”
“Whatever.”
His mouth twitches, almost forming a smile. I’ll take it.
Tex heads toward the porch, and I follow, as if I’ve accepted this is my life now: trailing a hot cowboy into the woods after being “sold” at an auction like it’s 1870.
The porch steps creak beneath our boots as Tex unlocks the door, and a wave of warmth rushes out, as if someone has just opened an oven.
The first thing I notice before the furniture and the layout is the light. It’s warm and golden, not a fluorescent bulb in sight. Something in my chest unclenches.
I step inside. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm and inviting. A thick woven rug cushions my boots, and a fire crackles in a stone hearth, with a leather sofa facing it. A rocking chair sits in the corner, and books are neatly arranged by height on a shelf.
Everything has its place.
Everything looks well-cared for.
No clutter. No chaos. No overflowing junk drawer filled with batteries, rubber bands, and items without homes.
I catch my reflection in a mirror by the door, my hair wild, mascara slightly smudged, scuffed boots, and suddenly I realize: I am the junk drawer. I am the chaos interrupting his carefully ordered life.
I become acutely aware of how much of my life has been duct-taped together.
Tex shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a hook. His hat goes on another hook, brim facing out. He places his boots by the door, toes perfectly aligned. His keys go on a small tray, and he adjusts them so the teeth all face the same direction.
I brace myself for the familiar irritation, the feeling of being judged by someone else’s standards, but it doesn’t come.
“You can laugh,” he says without turning around.
“At what?”
“The keys.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Everyone laughs at the keys.”
“I wasn’t going to laugh.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But I get it. The order. Having things where they belong.”
Something shifts in his expression. “Most people don’t.”
“I’m not most people,” I reply, echoing his words from the truck.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
He sets my bag down near the entryway. “Bathroom’s through there.” He nods toward a hallway. “Two bedrooms. Yours is on the right.”
Two bedrooms.
Relief flickers. As brave as I try to be, the thought of sharing a room with him right now makes my nerves skitter.
“My own room?” I ask. “Are you sure you can spare the space?”
“This works better if we both have room to breathe.”
His words resonate differently than he probably intended. Room to breathe. When was the last time anyone offered me that?
He meets my gaze. “The contract says temporary cohabitation. It doesn’t specify that you have to sleep in my bed.”
My cheeks heat. “Good. Because I snore. Loudly.”
“Noted,” he replies, turning toward the kitchen with the calm of a man entirely unbothered by bringing a strange woman home from an auction.
A strange woman who’s already making herself at home in his meticulously ordered space. A strange woman who can’t sit still, talks too much, and hasn’t stopped fidgeting since she got out of the truck. And he doesn’t seem to mind.
I stand there for a moment, listening to the crackling fire and the quiet.
The silence should be overwhelming. Usually, it amplifies my thoughts, filling the space with worries, lists, and things I forgot to do. But this quiet is different. It feels soft, like a blanket, rather than a vacuum.
Tex appears in the kitchen doorway. “I’ll take that.”
“I can carry my own bag.”
“I know.” He takes it anyway.
I could protest, but I don’t.
I follow him down the hallway. The bedroom on the right is simple: a wooden-framed bed with a flannel duvet, a small dresser, and a window overlooking a snow-covered field. A quilt is neatly folded at the foot of the bed, as if someone expects me to feel cold.
“Is the heat okay?” Tex asks from the doorway.
“Yeah, it’s perfect.”
He nods and sets my bag on the bed. “Let me know if you need anythin’ adjusted.”
There it is again—the asking, the checking. My brothers adjust things without asking. Tex asks first. That difference matters more than I can explain.
I stand there, duffel in hand, and swallow hard.
This is real. I’m not storming out for dramatic effect. This is me being somewhere else. Without my brothers. Without the noise. Without anyone who knows my bad habits, childhood messes, and moods.
A quiet ache blooms in my chest, sharp and unexpected. I ignore it, like I ignore most things that feel too close to the truth.
I dump my bag on the bed, unzip it, and pull out a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and the little makeup pouch I rarely use. My phone feels heavy in my hand as I take it out.
The screen lights up almost immediately with messages in our group chat.
Cutter Clan